


too close to home

by blueinkedbones



Category: Teen Wolf (TV) RPF
Genre: COVID19, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mutual Pining, Quarantine, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:14:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28294398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueinkedbones/pseuds/blueinkedbones
Summary: “My roommate’s sick,” Tyler says. “Or... thinks he’s sick. He’s coming home, and he wants to quarantine. Without me.”“Whaaaaaat?” Dylan says. There’s something so flat to it. “But you’re such a nice guy.”“And I can’t,” Tyler says. Acid in his throat, or glass, but he has to say it. He has to ask, because if he doesn’t... He just needs this, right now. “I can’t go to my  parents, because they—”“Oh no, Tyler,” Dylan says, and it’s how he used to sound, a million years ago. “And you don’t wanna be alone.”Any other conversation, any other real one, Dylan wouldn’t say that so seriously. Like he’s sorry, like he still cares. Like it matters at all what Tyler’s feeling.“I just need—a room,” Tyler says. Shutting his eyes, scrubbing at his eyelids. Trying not to get overwhelmed by the feeling. “You don’t have to talk to me.”“What an offer,” Dylan says, and he’s back to dry again. “I guess I’m the only guy you know with a house, huh?”“You’re not the only one,” Tyler says.
Relationships: Tyler Hoechlin/Dylan O'Brien
Comments: 4
Kudos: 18





	1. Chapter 1

And Tyler’s desperate, he calls him. Gets Dylan groggy, half-asleep, confused and kind of wary.

“Dylan,” he says, and his throat seizes up, and he doesn’t know what to say.

A short pause. Dylan says, “Yeah, that’s me.”

“I,” Tyler says, and his face is hot, and he doesn’t know why this is so hard. They’re always talking.

Just not like this, just not like...

“You know, um,” he says. Hears himself say, too late, embarrassingly. “There’s a pilot. There was gonna be.”

Nothing, nothing. Dylan doesn’t say anything. He always used to break the tension, before.

He’s so good at it.

“There was gonna be a lot of things, I guess,” Tyler says, finally.

“Probab _ly_ ,” Dylan says, and Tyler might be choking. So maybe he’s sick already, so maybe this is an even stupider question than he thought.

“I miss you,” he says, and Dylan sighs, loudly.

“It’s been five years, dude. What do you want?”

“Four years,” Tyler says. “I think it’s been four years, actually.”

Dylan sighs again. “I didn’t mean since we’d s _ee_ n each other. Or _spoke_...”

“We talk sometimes,” Tyler says, and Dylan says, “Are you drunk again? Or is that just gonna be the excuse.”

There _is_ wine involved. Obviously. Tyler hesitates. “That’s not why.”

“I bet,” Dylan says. Too tiredly. “G’night, Tyler.”

“Wait,” Tyler says. Something in his throat working too sharply, and tears pop in his eyes. “Wait, wait. I have to ask you something.”

Another sigh. “After the pilot, right? After the show. Or maybe after the next one.”

“My roommate’s sick,” Tyler says. “Or... thinks he’s sick. He’s coming home, and he wants to quarantine. Without me.”

“Whaaaaaat?” Dylan says. There’s something so flat to it. “But you’re such a nice guy.”

“And I can’t,” Tyler says. Acid in his throat, or glass, but he has to say it. He has to ask, because if he doesn’t... He just needs this, right now. “I can’t go to my p _arents_ , because they—”

“Oh no, Tyler,” Dylan says, and it’s how he used to sound, a million years ago. “And you don’t wanna be alone.”

Any other conversation, any other real one, Dylan wouldn’t say that so seriously. Like he’s sorry, like he still cares. Like it matters at all what Tyler’s feeling.

“I just need—a room,” Tyler says. Shutting his eyes, scrubbing at his eyelids. Trying not to get overwhelmed by the feeling. “You don’t have to talk to me.”

“What an offer,” Dylan says, and he’s back to dry again. “I guess I’m the only guy you know with a house, huh?”

“You’re not the only one,” Tyler says. “I just... Please.”

One more soft sigh, and Dylan nods. Tyler can see him nodding. “Okay.”

“Thank you,” Tyler says. “I—Really.”

“I already regret this,” Dylan says. “I hate myself. Honestly.”

I love you, Tyler almost says. But even he’s not that stupid.

He says, “That never made sense to me.”

“Yeah,” Dylan says. “Neither did a lot of things, probably. Tell you what, huh? Window’s closing. You can get here approximately, I don’t know, _now_ , or forget I was ever offering. You know we’re on our way to a lockdown, right? Like, the real thing.”

It still feels unreal. “I know,” Tyler says.

“Yeah, so _get_ here,” Dylan says. “I hope you’re already packing. Do you have a car?”

Tyler snorts. “Of course I have a _car_.”

“That you’re driving,” Dylan says. “And wash your glasses, by the way. You know how long it can live on those things?”

“What?” Tyler says.

“Nine days!” Dylan says. “Isn’t that crazy? And right near your eyes, that’s like the most vulnerable—Did you _hear_ , that the space around your eyes is so... Like, the soft tissue.”

Sounding like he used to, suddenly. Switching over, that easy.

Tyler lets out a long breath.

“And wear a mask, too,” Dylan says. “Not like a, like a real one. Save those for, you know... But like, a bandanna or something.”

“A bandanna,” Tyler says, a little numbly. Trying to—find it funny, or do a Derek thing.

“Yeah, with like rubber bands,” Dylan says. “I’ll make you a video. Not that—You know, it’s easy.”

“This feels insane,” Tyler says, and Dylan says, “You’re telling me? Hypochondriac’s worst nightmare, everyone taking him seriously.”

“Really?” Tyler says, and Dylan says, “Ap _parently_! Who would think.”

“You’re young, though,” Tyler says. “Low-risk.”

“Sure thing, Father Time,” Dylan says. Tyler rolls his eyes.

“I just mean,” he says. “You’re not really in danger of it. Comparatively.”

“Yeah, I love not seeing my parents,” Dylan says. Tyler shuts up. “Who, who doesn’t wanna lose their family.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Tyler says. “Obviously.”

“I don’t know, drunk you says a lot of things,” Dylan says, and then, too brightly, “ _A_ _nyway_. Forget driving out, I’ll come pick you up. I’m losing my mind, I need to do _something_. I’ll make you a mask, don’t worry.”

“Thank you,” Tyler says, genuinely tongue-tied. It’s the last thing he ever expected Dylan to say. _Yeah, sure. C_ _o_ _me live with me. I’m fine with that, and seeing you, and your stupid face. I’ll even drive out and bring you PPE. Wait, did I say that? Oh man, so sorry! I was drunk!_

That, that would make more sense, at least. For the Dylan outside Tyler’s head, it’d be reasonable.

And he almost says it again. Says, “ _D_ _ylan_.” Shaking his head a little. “Dylan, I...”

“Don’t,” Dylan says. “You’ll regret it. Trust me. _Anyway_ ,” he says, and there’s that sharp brightness again. “On my way to my car now. So—shut up, and get ready.”

“You got it,” Tyler says, and for a long time, Dylan doesn’t say anything.

“Dylan?” Tyler says, and Dylan says, “You should bring wine. Probably. Might make it a little easier, being around me.”

Tyler swallows, and Dylan says, “Don’t think I’m not gonna be this much of an asshole the whole time.”

Tyler swallows, nods. “I can handle it.”

“Good,” Dylan says. “ _Great_. Okay, I’m leaving.”

“I’ll see you,” Tyler says. “Stay safe.”

He’s suddenly sober, scared to death. _Dylan’s_ coming. Dylan’s coming _here_.

Tyler isn’t ready. Isn’t, he never even really moved in, or decorated, he barely knows where anything is. And he hasn’t been to the gym in—too long, he hasn’t looked in a mirror.

He does it now. Recoils, instantly, rushes to grab a razor. Collects the empty bottles on the dresser when he’s done. He can just see it, Dylan’s eyes flickering across the room, stopping there, too knowingly. And moving on, like he didn’t see anything.

He’s almost never _drunk_. He just likes it. The warm feeling.

And all the little worries go away. All the—complications of everything.

And he probably just lost his job. So what exactly should he be doing? With all his sober, suddenly free time.

He cleans it up. Cleans it up, gets rid of it. And he won’t bring wine to Dylan’s, either. Unless maybe he will.

Dylan, this is Dylan at his most generous. For Tyler? That’s his most understanding.

He’s gonna be at Tyler’s throat. For... for as long as this thing ends up lasting. All those passive-aggressive swipes at him, and then they’ll get less passive.

This was probably a huge mistake. Even as a last resort, as anything. Dylan’s eyes on him if he takes a drink, if he says a word, if he doesn’t. If he just sits in front of the TV and thinks about nothing, if he tries to get a second alone.

_I knew it. I knew it. You don’t care._

And all at once, Tyler’s too exhausted for anything. For—packing, or cleaning, or being presentable. Isn’t the world falling apart? Why is his appearance still so fucking important? It won’t make Dylan find him any more likable. He’s not gonna be going anywhere.

Everything’s stalling, for an indefinite amount of time. Tyler’s the only one who still gives a shit about it.

But he gives a shit about it. So he grimaces at the mirror again. Tries to figure out what else he can do to fix it in the next half hour. Spends six minutes taking off and putting on the same jacket, staring at the reflection of his arms.

And then his phone goes off, and Tyler’s head snaps up. It’s been years since he heard that ringtone.

Dylan set it up.

“Hey,” Dylan says. Just _h_ _ey_ , just moving on. Like he calls Tyler all the time, like this is nothing. _Hey, can you believe this? Turn on the TV._

“Dylan,” Tyler says, apparently incapable of being normal. “...Hi.”

“Hi,” Dylan says. “Been so long, I know. I guess I really missed you in the last five minutes.”

Tyler swallows, swallows. Opens his mouth to say—

“Anyway,” Dylan says. Tyler shuts his mouth. “I know I maybe freaked you out about the glasses, but you’re not wearing contacts, right? Because that’s so much worse. Sixteen percent... Sorry, I’m freaking you out.”

“No,” Tyler says. “Maybe a little bit. I don’t...” Shaking his head. “How do you know this stuff?”

“Obsessive reading?” Dylan says. “Like everyone else on the planet.”

“Is everyone...?” Tyler shakes his head. Everyone’s still wearing contacts. There’s not a million people wearing glasses, suddenly.

But maybe they’re just not taking it seriously.

“Disposable ones are better,” Dylan says. “Like, between the two. Or, call your doctor, actually.”

“I’m sure she’s busy,” Tyler says. “So... Glasses, apparently.”

“I don’t know,” Dylan says, suddenly panicking. “I just read one article, dude, I don’t know anything. I’ll send you the link, maybe...”

“I’m sure you didn’t miss anything,” Tyler says dryly.

“No, I don’t know,” Dylan says. “You would know better than me, how you’re feeling. I just didn’t want—like, to panic you into a worse one.”

“I’m not wearing glasses,” Tyler says, and Dylan makes a nervous sound. “ _Or_ contacts. It’s fine. I like things blurry.”

Joking, but Dylan sounds increasingly freaked out, without having to say anything. Tyler just knows the look on his face.

“I’m nearsighted,” he says. “I’m not—I can manage.”

“Nearsighted, that’s the one...” Dylan says, and Tyler laughs.

“I can see things in front of me,” he says. “I just can’t—drive. Or, it’s not advisable.”

“Good thing I’m picking you up, then,” Dylan says, sounding too relieved, and Tyler laughs again.

“I would’ve found something. Went with... one or the other.”

“Oh,” Dylan says. “Okay, cool. As long as you’re... Yeah. Okay, I’ll see you.”

“See you soon,” Tyler says, and Dylan takes a weird sharp breath.

“Dylan?” Tyler says. Trying not to... It’s nothing, he’s just breathing. He’s fine, Tyler’s just too aware of it.

“Sorry,” Dylan says, and Tyler tenses, forces himself to relax again. He’s not even thirty. He’s healthy, he’s in good shape. “Um, yeah. See you.”

_I love you. I love you. Dylan, I..._

“See you then,” Tyler says, and Dylan says, “Yeah.” Hangs up, and Tyler’s gripping his phone, not thinking.

If Dylan coughs or something, Tyler is going to lose his mind.

Dylan comes to pick Tyler up, and the very first thing he does is give him a hug.

“Dylan,” Tyler says, a little speechless, a little too... everything. Dylan’s always been too good at this. Along with everything else.

“Needed that,” Dylan says, pulling away. “I don’t care who you are. We’re quarantine buddies, it’s not gonna come from anywhere else.”

“Ah,” Tyler says. Trying to... He doesn’t know. Sound normal. “Right.”

“Anyway,” Dylan says. “You have your stuff?”

“Inside,” Tyler says. “I... It’s not a lot, really.”

“Should’ve known,” Dylan says. “You always were a minimalist.”

“I like,” Tyler says, and smiles, a little wryly. “Not being tied down, you know. Being able to travel.”

“Well, then this is gonna suck,” Dylan says. “Unless you mean, like, pointless car rides. Or watching travel channels.”

“I think that would just depress me,” Tyler says. “Rather not focus on it.”

“You’re good at blocking things out,” Dylan says. “Being... single-minded.”

Tyler looks at him.

“I get obsessive, you know,” Dylan says. “Can’t just actively, like, decide... Anyway. You’re a good distraction.”

Tyler goes hot. Even if it’s not, even if he’s sure that’s not what Dylan means anymore. It still sounds like it.

“You’re wearing glasses,” Dylan says, and Tyler blinks at him. Reaches up—right. “I need to see what I’m packing.”

“Th _a_ t sounds dirty,” Dylan says, and Tyler flushes again.

So maybe he is doing it on purpose. Or maybe... Tyler doesn’t know anymore.

“Boxes,” he says, unnecessarily. “For... you know.”

“Thanks for clarifying,” Dylan says, kind of laughing, and heat crawls up Tyler’s neck. His ears are burning.

“You can hit me, if you want,” he hears himself saying. “Just... To get it out of the way.”

Dylan stops laughing. “What?”

“You know,” Tyler says, but he doesn’t. Nothing sounds right, once he says it. “The scene.”

Dylan laughs. “You really still remember that stuff? It’s all, like, this giant fog. And then I’m like, did that really happen? That one insane thing, that st _i_ ll doesn’t...” Shaking his head. “Anyway. _Why_ would I hit you?”

“Forget it,” Tyler says. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Is your mom okay?” Dylan says. “She’s not still, like, going to church, or anything.”

“No,” Tyler says. “She’s... No.”

“That’s gotta be so weird,” Dylan says. “Like, religiously. Having to, just, suddenly... And she’s the active type, too.”

“Do you know her?” Tyler says. He’s trying not to be weird about this. But Dylan, why would _D_ _ylan_ know... Unless they always kept in touch, or something. Just long phone calls, discussing him. Or visits.

“No, I don’t know,” Dylan says. “We’ve met. You’ve said things.”

“Have I?” Tyler says, a little too caustically. Dylan looks at him.

“O-kay,” he says. “No mom stuff. How have _you_ been doing?”

“Super,” Tyler says. And hears himself, and grimaces. “I didn’t mean—”

“No, that’s good,” Dylan says. “That’s a good one. Quick thinking.”

“I really didn’t,” Tyler says. “I just meant—the normal one.” Looking at Dylan again. “You heard about it?”

“You’re Superman, dude,” Dylan says. “Not exactly a secret.”

“But it’s not, like.” Tyler shrugs. “A movie.”

“Oh yeah, only a TV show,” Dylan says. “Starring _you_. As the biggest superhero on the planet. No biggie.”

Tyler’s blushing again. He says, “But that was—before.”

“So?” Dylan says. “You’re not getting canceled. Did they say you were getting canceled?”

“Indefinitely,” Tyler says, trying to sound indifferent, “indefinitely, uh... postponed.”

“And that sucks,” Dylan says. Tyler stares down at nothing. “That doesn’t mean you’re losing it.”

“ _Feel_ like I’m losing it,” Tyler mutters, but he shakes his head. “No, that’s not... No.” That’s not something to joke about.

 _Hey_ , Dylan says. _Give yourself a break. For a s_ e _cond_.

“I’m,” Tyler says, and he shakes his head. “It’s not like it’s... _really_ important.”

“It’s important,” Dylan says. “You put your whole life into it.”

 _Dylan_. Tyler can’t... He shuts his eyes.

“And you?” he says, when he can speak again. “How have you... with everything.”

Dylan shrugs.

“You know,” he says. “In between depressive episodes. Nothing new, really.”

“Wait,” Tyler says. Frowning, focusing on him. “What?”

Dylan shrugs again. And something’s flooding Tyler, now, some sick, slow adrenaline. Did he know? Was he supposed to?

“You’ve been good, though,” he says. “Your career.”

Dylan shrugs again. “Turns out, that’s not the only...”

“But,” Tyler says. He can’t really swallow this. Can’t really, Dylan saying it so plainly, he can’t believe. “Why?”

“Oh, I don’t know, dude,” Dylan says. And the chill gets colder, the sudden fear in him. _Wait, wait._ “Just too much bullshit, I guess.”

That phone call, Dylan sighing all the time. Tyler thought—He doesn’t know what he thought, he didn’t think—

Dylan just hated _him_ , maybe. Was just tired of _him_ , of everything _he_ turned out to be.

He didn’t think—

“Don’t worry,” Dylan says. “I’m not, you know, active about it.”

Terror jolting Tyler, he didn’t even _think_ about that. He didn’t even _think_ —

“I just sleep a lot,” Dylan says. “And, like, kind of hate everything. It’s not... You know. So dram _a_ tic.”

But Dylan... not Dylan. Dylan’s smart, and funny, and easily excited, he’s the one... He’s the bright side of everything. He’s got a punchline for everything, and a hug, he makes everyone feel better.

He’s... Robin Williams, Tyler thinks. Hating, hating himself. Hating that he never noticed it.

“Could I,” he says, and he doesn’t even know how to get it out. “Is there... Could I do something? Would it help?”

He doesn’t know what he’s saying half the time. It always comes out wrong.

“I mean, how can I,” he says, and wants to cringe again. “I wanna do... something.”

“Not your job,” Dylan says. And then, “ _R_ _eally_ not your job. Don’t worry.”

“I don’t care about my job,” Tyler says. “I don’t have one.”

“It’s not a movie, okay?” Dylan says. “You can’t fix it.”

“I could try,” Tyler says.

It eats at him, the whole drive, Dylan somehow back to chatty again. Cracking jokes like it’s fine, like Tyler imagined it.

Like things have never been more normal. Except Dylan hands Tyler a bag with a bandanna in it, and everything flips back to wrong again.

“You’re not wearing one,” Tyler says.

“Yeah, I’m being stupid,” Dylan says. “You know me, I’m a thrill seeker. We’re gonna be all up in each others’ spaces anyway, so.”

He shrugs a little, says, “Anyway, I didn’t wanna, like, freak you out. With how weird all this is.”

“It shouldn’t matter,” Tyler says. Swallowing, swallowing. “If I get—freaked out. If it’s important.”

“Oh, man,” Dylan says. “I forgot. You’re, like...”

Tyler looking at him, but he doesn’t finish.

“I’m like,” Tyler says.

“An idealist,” Dylan says. “Like, the most wide-eyed one.”

“I just think, if it’s important,” Tyler says, not really sure what he’s arguing. Not really sure what Dylan means about it. He’s more alert about health stuff than anyone. Not like, diets, but medical conditions. Everything bad that could ever happen to you.

Tyler doesn’t think he’s even ever been sick before. Which _would_ make you anxious, probably. If you have nothing to compare it to.

But then wouldn’t you care about it?

“Yeah,” Dylan says. “I don’t know. You get, like, overwhelmed. Feels... I don’t know, feels like there’s a million things you should be doing. Like, this car,” he says. “I didn’t disinfect this car. And I’m driving _you_ around in it, so like... I could be killing you.”

Tyler laughs. “I feel fine.”

“Yeah, but you don’t,” Dylan says. “It turns so fast. And then... it’s like that.” Snapping his fingers. “Asymptomatic, to like... not breathing anymore. I’m gonna open the window.”

His knuckles are very white.

“So then you’re like, but it hits worse if you’re overweight,” Dylan says. “And like, clearly that doesn’t apply to you. So you’re doing this sick math, trying to feel better about cutting corners. And if you get it, it’s not gonna fucking matter. If the odds were more balanced, or whatever.”

“It’s not gonna be your fault,” Tyler says. “I got in the car.”

“Except you would’ve come in yours,” Dylan says. “But I got, like, antsy. And wanted to see you. Or another human being, you know. Are you okay?” he demands. “On the phone, you sounded...”

“I’m fine,” Tyler says.

“And it’s not your mom, I asked you,” Dylan says. “So... your dad...”

“No,” Tyler says. “It’s not... It’s nothing. Or everything, you know,” he says, rolling his eyes a little. “Everyone’s dealing with it.”

“Because they’ve been shitty, before,” Dylan says. and Tyler shrugs, he doesn’t mean to. It just... happens sometimes. “With, like... career stuff.”

“That’s normal,” Tyler says. Trying to shrug in slow motion, at least. Or something. “That’s... No one likes waiting.”

“My parents just stay out of it,” Dylan says, and Tyler tries a smile. It’s more of a grimace.

“Lucky.”

“No one has control over anything,” Dylan says. “You can’t, like, micromanage.”

“Do we have to have this conversation?”

“Guess not, no,” Dylan says. “Forget it. Sorry.”

It’s quiet for a while.

“And it’s not about, you know,” Dylan says. “Do they know, that you’re dating... What’s his name?”

“What?” Tyler says.

“Your ‘roommate,’” Dylan says, giving the word way too much emphasis. “The... Toby something.”

Tyler stares. “You know about him?”

“You were in that thing, right?” Dylan says. “The... the short film. And he produced it, and now, you’re like...”

“I’m not anything,” Tyler says. “I wouldn’t be _moving out_ , if I was... I wouldn’t’ve called you.”

“Oh,” Dylan says. A little wide-eyed. “Really?”

“If my _boyfriend_ was sick?” Tyler says, and somehow doesn’t flinch saying _my boyfriend_. “I don’t think I’d be taking off, no. Leaving him alone. Who do you think I am, exactly?”

“I don’t know,” Dylan says, and then, “Guess I don’t know you.”

His eyes fixed on the road, Tyler just staring.

Inside, Dylan points out a guest room, the bathroom next to it. Dylan’s room, the office, the kitchen. Little dinette area, for all his miniature dinner parties. Second bathroom, linen closet. Washer dryer situation. The living room, that gets a lot of mileage. Couch, smart TV. The pool, and the roof.

“And that’s, that’s casa del Dylan. Or maybe _de_ , actually. My Spanish is still... unbelievably bad.”

“Nice place,” Tyler says mildly, and tries not to think about Dylan seeing his apartment too much. Tries not to think about how _clean_ this place is. Like he’s expecting a magazine.

“Yeah, I’m lucky,” Dylan says. “Got to buy a house before the world broke down. Get to feel like I have it s _o_ mewhat together. While everything’s just... chaos.”

It’s been chaotic for a while. Or getting worse, getting... Tyler just never thought it would just _stop_. Work, and everything.

He’s still holding the mask Dylan gave him. Still can’t really believe it.

“Anyway,” Dylan says. “Do you still have the worst diet in the world?”

“Right now?” Tyler says. “I don’t have a diet.” It’s the only good thing about this.

“Okay, good,” Dylan says. “Turns out, I l _o_ ve cooking. But then I have, like, leftovers all week, since it’s just me. Good to have the extra stomach.”

“You used to cook,” Tyler says. “Back when... years ago.”

“Please,” Dylan says, he’s covering his face. “That doesn’t count. Pretty sure I gave you food poisoning. I knew like, three spices.”

“Are there more?” Tyler says, and Dylan looks at him like he can’t figure out if that’s a joke or not. “I’m kidding,” Tyler says.

He _thinks_ he is.

“You never gave me food poisoning,” he adds, and Dylan says, “You forget things.”

Well, that’s what you get for being _nice_ about it. Tyler says, “Right.”

“I didn’t mean,” Dylan says, and then, “Forget it.”

“Apparently my specialty.”

“Okay,” Dylan says. His voice is shaking, a little bit, his eyes are too bright. Tyler stills, kind of freezes in place, trying... He doesn’t even know what he’s trying to do.

“So, you know how the house goes,” Dylan says. “Where... where everything is. So, bye.”

Turning his back on him, Tyler still frozen. Dylan’s sniffling, scrubbing under his eye.

Walking away. Tyler says, “Dylan.”

He doesn’t know why. He doesn’t have a plan after that.

He just can’t leave it like this.

“Food’s in the fridge,” Dylan says. “And I’ll tell you when I make something. Text, I’ll text.”

“Dylan,” Tyler says again.

“Yeah, so that’s it,” Dylan says. Keeping his back to him. “Nice seeing you, Tyler.”

Like it isn’t. And Tyler might be choking, he doesn’t know. He can’t really unfreeze.

He tries to say Dylan’s name again, but his jaw locks, and Dylan keeps moving.

Tyler finds him on the couch, later, watching something on his phone. Dylan looks up when he sees him, pauses the video.

“Sorry,” Tyler says.

“No, it’s not—Don’t worry,” Dylan says. “Just—You probably don’t wanna see.”

He probably doesn’t. Not by the look on Dylan’s face, like he doesn’t care about their fight anymore. Like he’s just seen something way more serious.

Tyler says, “It won’t help you to traumatize yourself.”

“Can’t help it,” Dylan says. “I can’t, I mean… I can’t _not know_ what’s happening.”

“Nothing good,” Tyler offers. “Now you don’t have to look at it.”

He glances at Dylan’s screen. Shakes his head, looks past it.

“It’s in South Korea,” Dylan says. “Seoul. She’s a YouTuber, you came in at like the worst time.” Picking another section of the video, and it’s just a girl talking in her bedroom. “There’s just, like, a clip. Of what’s happening.”

People collapsing on the street, and medics attending to them. Or no one doing anything.

“It’s a movie,” Tyler says. “It’s just a movie.”

It’s not. But it feels like one. Feels… Weird, and unreal, like he’s walking through a dream.

He should be in Vancouver, right now.

He’s in Dylan’s house. Which is its own… He doesn’t even know what it is. Dylan sitting inches from him isn’t making it feel any realer.

“This isn’t even now,” Dylan says. “It’s like, from January.”

He looks different. Not t _hat_ different, but it’s still jarring, realizing you haven’t seen a friend in four years. Realizing people grow, and change, even when you’re not looking at them. E _specially_ then.

Tyler says, “Happy New Year.”

Dylan looking at him, like, What? You must be joking. And hesitating. Studying his face, and his gaze softens.

“Yeah,” he says. “You too.”


	2. Chapter 2

Tyler’s put on the mask. He’s making faces at himself in the bathroom mirror, in it, when Dylan finds him.

It’s so much weirder seeing _T_ _yler_ in it than anything.

“You look good,” Dylan says, and Tyler looks at him. “I mean, it suits you.”

“Covering half my face?” Tyler says, wry. “Yeah, thanks.”

“Shut up,” Dylan says. “You know you look good in anything.”

He can’t tell, if Tyler’s blushing. If the room’s just warmer, all of a sudden.

Probably a bad idea, even guessing.

“It’s the eyes, you know,” Dylan says. “You have, like, Disney eyes. Like, out of a cartoon.”

“Getting better and better,” Tyler says, and Dylan laughs.

“No, in a good way.”

He shouldn’t talk like this. Shouldn’t... It’s just too easy, to fall into old habits.

And Tyler still has that, like, _energy_ to him. Like, mood-changing, like, all the good in the world.

Or something. Dylan doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Gets too, like... And then it’s instantly embarrassing.

He stays close now, which is the weirdest thing. Like, interview Tyler. Back-in-time Tyler, laughing at everything. Ready to be.

And then it’s like, _what_ , what is this? What were the last five years, did I just imagine the whole thing?

If he was always, like, able to...

Anyway.

“I’m making breakfast,” Dylan says. “Just so you know. Don’t get full on like, cereal.”

“Breakfast,” Tyler says.

“Yeah,” Dylan says. And Tyler looks at him some more, and Dylan says, “What time do _you_ think it is?”

“Night time?” Tyler says.

“Eight fucking AM,” Dylan says. “What time did you think you called me?”

Tipping his phone up to show him. Tyler’s eyes widen.

He’s definitely blushing now.

“I am so sorry,” he says. “I, _o_ bviously I didn’t think...”

"Don’t worry,” Dylan says. “Eggs or pancakes? Or both, I guess.”

“I...” Tyler says, and then, “Not b _oth_. Or—whatever you’re making.” He’s still shaking his head. “I _cannot_ believe I did that.”

Dylan can believe it. He shuts his mouth, though.

He doesn’t have to ruin everything.

Tyler still in a state of disbelief, he heads to the window. Opens the shade, and sunlight pours in.

Tyler says, “Unbelievable.”

“You weren’t, you know,” Dylan says. “Extremely sober.”

Trying to be encouraging. Trying... But he can hear how it comes out of his mouth.

“Yeah,” Tyler says. “That explains it.”

“It’s not a big deal,” Dylan says. “I sleep like, two hours a night, anyway.”

And then there’s that concerned look, concerned gaze. Dylan ducks his head. Turns around, looks for a pan. Opens the fridge, hides his face for a second.

“Eggs,” he says. “And uh... I have a crepe mix somewhere.”

Tyler says, “You make _crepes_.”

Like that’s so off the wall, he can’t even fathom it. Dylan says, “They’re like pancakes. Just... thinner.”

“I’ve seen a crepe before,” Tyler says. Still in that same tone.

“No, I mean, it’s the same, basically,” Dylan says. “Just, thinner batter. Maybe more egg? I don’t know.”

“And you put the like, hazelnut...”

“Nutella,” Dylan says. “No, that’s so gross, that’s disgusting. Maple syrup, all the way.”

Tyler’s looking at Dylan like he’s completely insane.

“It gets all, like, crispy,” Dylan says. “Trust me. It’s nice.”

“ _Crispy_ ,” Tyler says, and Dylan says, “ _L_ _acy_. That’s the word. All, like... You don’t have to eat it. Eggs, you know, I’m very traditional.”

He makes his weirdo lacy pancake. It turns out fucking beautiful. Tyler’s still got the same look of disbelief.

“Yeah,” Dylan says, and folds it over. Gets a little dish, puts maple syrup in it. “ _Voila_.”

“Voila,” Tyler says, and Dylan cuts it in half, tragic as that is. Slides that onto a plate, no maple syrup, ‘cause Tyler’s too smug for it. Scared of like, reinvention. Crea _tivity_.

“Yeah,” he says, when Tyler tries it. “ _Right?_ I knew it.”

Tyler says, “You have gotten a _lot_ better at cooking.”

“Started from the bottom, you know,” Dylan says. “I’m not... I mean, I’m still using a mix. I’m not Gordon Ramsay.”

Tyler says nothing, because he’s eating his half a crepe like it deserves to be eaten, no talking. Dylan rescues the other side.

“You didn’t start cooking?” he says. “In like, five years. Or was that a Toby thing.”

“No,” Tyler says, when he’s finished. “Uh, neither of us. Takeout, mostly. Or craft services, or something.”

“And you really never...” Dylan says, but he shakes his head. “Not that... You said you didn’t.”

“What?” Tyler says, and Dylan says, “With him.”

Whatever, he’s not subtle. He’s not...

But it’s not like there’s anyone else, that he knows of.

“I,” Tyler says, and then, “ _V_ _ery_ briefly. It’s complicated.”

“But you stayed living with him,” Dylan says. “That must’ve been, like.”

He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He doesn’t have a clue.

“He’s a good guy,” Tyler says. “You’d like him.”

 _That_ shuts Dylan down, fast. Right, he’s done talking about this, right now.

“I’m gonna go... take a nap, maybe.” Half-yawning into his arm, kind of convincing himself. He _is_ tired, he’s not lying. It is eight-something, he didn’t sleep in like a day and a half.

Just too much, like, antsy energy.

“Yeah?” Tyler says. “Yeah, that’s probably a good idea.” Shaking his head, kind of laughing at himself. “Sorry, again.”

“Don’t worry,” Dylan says. He puts the pan in the sink, all the cutlery. Yawns again, not even trying this time.

“I can do it,” Tyler says. “I can take care of it.”

“Yeah? You’re the best,” Dylan says, and hugs him as he’s passing him.

Then he sleeps for about a month.

He wakes up with half a headache, with some low, sad feeling in his chest.

And this is, like, the worst time for it.

It’s dumb, is what it is. It’s pathetic, it’s embarrassing.

It’s totally disconnected from anything that’s been going on, but he knows that’s not how Tyler’s gonna take it.

He shuts his eyes, for a while. Rolls over, goes back to sleep.

Repeats that cycle about six times, 'til he doesn’t feel like anything.

Tyler says, “You can’t stay in bed all day.”

Standing in the doorway, watching him. Dylan smiles tightly.

“Bet I can, actually.”

“I mean,” Tyler says, obviously rethinking, “ _I_ can’t—I mean, it’s not healthy.”

“Yeah,” Dylan says. “You’re the paragon of health, dude.”

He’s shitty, sometimes. Says shitty things. Watches Tyler’s face fall, in that long second before he just stares at him like a wounded lamb or something, like, What did I do?

Nothing. A million things. Dylan doesn’t wanna get into it.

“You wanna close the door, maybe?”

“Right,” Tyler says. “Yeah.”

And he steps _inside_ of it.

Now it’s Dylan staring at him, wondering how he could possibly—how you could p _o_ ssibly misinterpret that. That blatant a signal.

Tyler says, “We could watch something.”

Yeah, no. The inside of his eyelids, that’s the plan for tonight. And today, and all the in-between hours.

“Go for it,” Dylan says. “Couch is all yours.”

Tyler’s face is too expressive. That’s, that’s the problem. In like a five-year-old way, all big, open emotions that show up like exclamation points. Dylan always said, he’s a cartoon character. Disney eyes, on top of being too good looking. Even, like, unkempt, like now.

 _Less_ kempt, really. There’s only so much damage Tyler’s whole look can go through. Like, like artfully distressed jeans.

Dylan fucking hates him.

Go away, he says, except of course he doesn’t. Even he’s not that much of an asshole.

“Tyler,” he says. “I’m really tired, dude. We can watch something later, maybe.”

“There are trails not far from here,” Tyler says. “We have—masks, and everything.”

Still making a face on _masks_ , like it’s the most surreal thing.

“Yeah, please get lost in the woods right now,” Dylan says. “So a crowd comes out to find you. That sounds fucking ideal.”

“Maybe not,” Tyler says. “You said... You have a roof—”

“Not with this state of mind I don’t, okay?” Dylan says. He lets Tyler figure out what that means on his own time. It takes him a while.

“ _Dylan_ ,” Tyler says.

“Yeah, no,” Dylan says. “Not now. We’re not having this conversation.”

“You can’t just say—”

“Then I didn’t,” Dylan says. He scrubs at his face. “Seriously, just let me—I’ll fucking sleep, and I’ll be fine.”

Tyler’s exclamation-mark face is like, pure panic.

“Sorry,” Dylan says. “I’m sorry. You wanna watch a movie? Let’s watch a fucking movie.”

Dragging himself out of bed, spine kind of groaning.

They watch Fight Club, and Dylan says, “Yeah, I feel much better.”

The world crashing and burning, it feels familiar. Just hitting and hitting at you.

Tyler says, “I never actually thanked you for letting me stay here.”

“What?” Dylan says. “No, of course. I love you.”

That look on Tyler’s face again, that frozen look. That—Disney eyes, just staring.

“Loved, I mean,” Dylan says. Get a fucking grip, Dylan. “Obviously.”

“Obviously,” Tyler says faintly, and Dylan says, “No, you know.”

“Yeah,” Tyler says. Low, all flat as anything. “I know.”

It’s the fucking mixed messages, with him. The hot and cold of it. Makes Dylan wanna fucking bang his head against the wall.

“Anyway,” Dylan says. “Yeah. Of course I want you here. So much less anxiety than you just, like, out in the world, touching everything.”

“ _I_ touch everything?” Tyler says. Like Dylan even fidgets like that anymore. And that was always more a Stiles thing.

“No, I just mean,” Dylan says. Shaking his head, a little, and his thoughts get cloudy. “I... totally just lost my train of thought.”

“You just mean,” Tyler offers.

He is, he is. Dylan’s just mean. And he knows that’s not at all what Tyler meant.

It just feels like it.

“No, I don’t know,” he says. “Shut up, Dylan. You’re doing great at it.”

Tyler’s looking at him weird again. Weird, and heavy, and concerned, and Dylan didn’t sign up for this. He’s doing a nice thing, okay? He’s opening up his house. Not—his whole self, like, for scrutiny.

He has an office he can hide in. Has like, emails, has to set up meetings. Even if he doesn’t even know what that looks like anymore.

“Well, see you,” he says, and darts off, and Tyler’s saying, “Dylan,” behind him.

“Meetings,” he says, vaguely. “Uh... Work stuff. You know.”

Tyler says, “I’ve kind of been avoiding it.”

Dylan turns back around.

Right, right. The whole—dream come true, for him. The million-year plan, that’s shattering.

Dylan says, “Trails, huh?”

Tyler’s faraway, but he looks at him.

“Yeah, there’s like—hiking. Or people just walk around.” Shrugging a little, looking kind of embarrassed by it. “Sightseeing.”

“Masked up,” Dylan says, and Tyler says, “Obviously.”

Dylan says, “Could be fun.”

“Yeah,” Tyler says. “Yeah, it will be.” He’s getting, like, weirdly excited. For _walking outside_ , with Dylan.

Dylan’s not sure he isn’t living with a golden retriever.

“I haven’t been outside, like,” Dylan says. “For anything. Besides picking you up.”

Tyler looks at him. “Already?”

Dylan shrugs. “Kind of a habit.”

There’s that look again. Dylan says, “I’m gonna get masks. And like—water bottles.”

Tyler just sits there, watching him.

It’s nice. Even just the car ride, Tyler driving. He offered. Dylan’s still yawning, a little bit.

The car movement’s part of it. It’s like, lulling. Dylan slumping, tipping his head against Tyler’s shoulder.

He should, he should know better. But Tyler doesn’t say anything about it.

Just glances at him, once, and then a little longer, and puts his arm around him.

When Dylan wakes up, the car’s not moving. His neck’s all stiff from the weird position, and Tyler’s just kind of looking at him. ‘til Dylan catches his eye, then he looks away, laughing.

“We’re there already?” he says, and Tyler laughs again.

“We were for a while. I thought I’d let you sleep a little bit.”

Well, that’s embarrassing. Dylan stretching away, rubbing his neck.

“Sorry,” he says. “And I just slept, too. For like, six hours.”

Tyler shrugs. “You’re tired.”

“Yeah, I shouldn’t be,” Dylan says, but he gets out of the car. Just stands there, stretching, Tyler watching him. “Alright, where are we going?”

“Right,” Tyler says, like he forgot, or something. “Um, right here.”

A billion years ago, Dylan went on hikes with him. Tyler, always all about being in nature. Nature Boy.

A billion years ago, when they didn’t hate each other.

Anyway. Dylan blinks, scrubs at his eye.

Stops thinking so much.

When it comes to the actual trails, Dylan’s faster than him. Which always used to surprise him, that Tyler’s not—like, his usual, competitive... Like, treating it like a treadmill.

But no, he likes looking. He likes walking around. Dylan’s the one who always had, like, too much energy. Who needed a purpose, who went in a straight line. While Tyler’s reaching for his camera.

But he’s foggy now, so he’s slower. Kind of ambling by Tyler, Tyler staying close to him.

He’s masked up, bandanna’d up. Which feels weird, just looking at him. But weirder, knowing he bought that exact bandanna, and doctored it, and gave it to him, and now Tyler’s wearing it, and fiddling with it, and dragging it back up his face.

He needs a better-fitting one. Dylan’s gonna look into it. What’s, like, a less amateurish method. If it depends on the face, maybe. Like, the jawline. It’s less effective if you have a beard, Dylan knows that. But Tyler doesn’t, really.

Just, his own version of the Derek one. Just like, less perfectly detailed.

Tyler laughs, when Dylan mentions it. Says, “I have no idea how to maintain that.”

And yeah, yeah. Hair and makeup were like, wizards, on that show.

Tyler’s laughing a lot, now. Tyler keeps laughing.

Makes something kind of hurt, in the hollow part of him.

But only if he thinks about it.


	3. Chapter 3

It feels more real here, outdoors, with a breeze blowing. With trees around, and everything feeling more alive, and Dylan so quiet.

Staying close to him. And it feels—Tyler doesn’t know, like they’ve figured everything out. Even though that’s so far from the reality, it stings to even think about it. Even though nothing’s different, or nothing should be.

He says, “You’re not missing those meetings?”

“What?” Dylan says. “No, they’re the worst. Make me wanna, like, quit acting.”

Then he says, “You mean, like, literally missing. Yeah. No, I’ll just move them around.”

“I meant,” Tyler says, and can’t decide. “Either one. You would quit acting?”

“I don’t know,” Dylan says. “More like, an escape fantasy. I don’t know what the hell else I would do.”

“But,” Tyler says. That doesn’t make any _sense_. “You’re _good_ at acting.”

“Yeah, you think so?” Dylan says. And Tyler stares at him. Like it isn’t obvious. Like he hasn’t won every award that could possibly prove it, had every possible dream career. “I don’t know. It just got... way more complicated.”

“Attention,” Tyler guesses. Dylan laughs.

“Yeah, you’d think.”

Which Tyler doesn’t begin to understand. He knows Dylan’s more famous than him.

He fully expects someone to see Dylan, on this trail, and recognize him. Mask and all, and then look at Tyler, like, Do I know you?

And it’s no. The answer’s no, constantly.

“No, I don’t know,” Dylan says. “I just... I want a little fucking agency, maybe. Or just, to start over.”

“Start over,” Tyler says.

“Like, as an actor,” Dylan says. “Like, without it mattering, without everyone weighing in all the time. I hate franchises,” he adds. “Like, the really big... They’re ruining movies.”

Tyler stares. “You’ve been in five of them.” Really successfully, he doesn’t add.

“Yeah, I hate it,” Dylan says. “If it was up to me? I wouldn’t play one more fucking superhero.”

“Sorry,” he adds. “I know it’s like, your dream job, to be... I just hate it.”

“Money,” Tyler says. “And easy roles.”

“Yeah, it’s not easy,” Dylan says. “It’s like, everyone has their own idea of it. And everything’s so much bigger than you are. It’s, like, barely acting. Barely making a decision, it’s like, the worst parts of making movies. All the overthinking, none of the, like, artistic... Oh my god.” Scrubbing at his face. “I sound like such a tool.”

“No,” Tyler says, even if he still can’t understand that. Getting to that place in your career, and hating it.

“Like, you make such fun movies,” Dylan says, and Tyler stares at him.

“You’re kidding.”

“No, I’m serious,” Dylan says. “Like, it looks so fun, making them.”

Well _that_ feels condescending. But maybe it isn’t. “Yeah, it is. Sometimes.”

“Indie stuff, you know?” Dylan says. “Like, everyone spit-balling. No expectations, of any of it.”

Yeah, Tyler definitely isn’t enjoying this conversation.

“You get the best performances,” Dylan says. “When like, you don’t expect anything. You just get to be shocked by it.”

“Is it shocking?” Tyler says.

This was a mistake.

“ _G_ _hosthand_ , right?” Dylan says. “It’s like, this weird, quiet movie. You’re never expecting... And then it just, like, emotionally devastates you.”

 _That’s_ not where Tyler thought this was going. “You watched it?”

“‘Course I did, are you kidding?” Dylan says. “You had a _haunted hand_.”

Tyler laughs. “There was that.”

“And I watch all your stuff,” Dylan says. Something in his voice, Tyler stops walking.

“You do,” he says.

Dylan looks at him. “‘Course I do.”

They start walking again. Tyler does, he can’t think.

Nothing makes sense anymore.

“Whoa, okay,” Dylan says. “Speed-walking.”

Tyler stops again, slows down.

Tyler watches _D_ _ylan’s_ movies. Of course he does. Everyone does.

He just didn’t know it was the other way around.

It doesn’t really... He can’t understand it.

"I’m not even _in_ ,” he says. “Like, half of what I have a role in. I have a few scenes...”

“Yeah, the good ones,” Dylan says, and Tyler can’t even look at him.

“I’m—a prop,” he says. “Honestly.”

“What?” Dylan says. “Shut up. No you’re not.”

And this doesn’t feel real.

 _G_ _hosthand_ , fine, that was... He had a good work day, he felt something. Took it a different route, instead of leaning into the irony. And Dylan liked it.

That still feels crazy. But even then, that was a weird movie. Most of them aren’t like that.

Most of them, he shows up, and stands around.

Thinks about how much time he’s wasting.

“ _emerald green_ ,” Dylan says. "That was another good one.”

“ _R_ _eally_ ,” Tyler says. That was like—a Hallmark movie. Lifetime. Some overwritten, flowery...

“You brought more to it,” Dylan says. “Sincerity.”

Tyler’s definitely dreaming now.

“That’s the point,” Dylan says. “You did that. And you’re able to do it, without, like, a million studio heads breathing down your back. A million... preconceived notions.”

“Why do you do it, then?” Tyler says. “Franchise movies. You could do anything you want.”

Dylan laughs. “Oh man. I wish.”

“You could,” Tyler says. It doesn’t make sense, none of it. “You could make a movie, right now. Well not right _now_ ,” he edits. “But—after this. Or before it. You could pick a script, and call a director—or _be_ one, if you wanted. And everyone would go see it.”

“Love it, dude,” Dylan says. Sounding... Tyler doesn’t know. “I wish I had your version of my life.”

“You could,” Tyler says. “You do.” Frowning, brow creasing. “Why not?”

“I’m not the producer, okay?” Dylan says. “Your ex is the producer.”

It takes Tyler a second. “My...”

“Toby,” Dylan says. “Of course it’s T _o_ by. What a great guy.”

Tyler doesn’t know what’s happening. What’s in Dylan’s voice, suddenly.

And just like that, it’s gone.

“Maybe,” Dylan says. “Now that we’re not all... so busy. Maybe I’ll write something.”

“Yeah,” Tyler says. “Maybe Toby can produce it.”

Joking, not even thinking.

But Dylan goes quiet so quickly. Goes... And Tyler pretends he’s just jealous, or something.

Pretends it makes sense for him to be.

“I’m joking,” he says. “Obviously.”

“Right, yeah, no,” Dylan says. “It’s so obvious.”

That flat tone to his voice again.

The drive home is too quiet. The drive back. Not that—It was quiet on the way, Dylan was sleeping. But it felt different.

“Sorry,” Dylan says, while Tyler circles, looking for parking. “I’m... I don’t even know. I know I ruined the trip,” he adds. “And, and you were looking forward to it.”

“I wasn’t looking _forward_ ,” Tyler says. “It was spontaneous.”

“And you didn’t ruin it,” he adds, too late, into the too-silent silence. Dylan’s looking ready to drown. “You didn’t ruin it. It was good.”

“You don’t have to,” Dylan says, but he covers his face, just breathes for a few seconds. Awful, sharp breaths, and then he’s shaking.

“Dylan,” Tyler says. He might be frozen again. “Dylan, you didn’t.” Touching his shoulder, slipping his arm around him before he can really think about it.

Dylan shudders.

He says, “This is a mistake. You, like, being around me.”

And Tyler knew that. He still says, “Why?”

“And me, thinking I could handle it,” Dylan says. Like he didn’t even hear him. “When I obviously... Well, you know.”

“We’ll do it differently,” Tyler says. “Set up... clearer boundaries.”

“Yeah, _that’s_ what I want,” Dylan says. “That’s what I want, definitely. You’ve changed _so much_.”

He’s laughing, suddenly. Or he’s... Tyler doesn’t even know.

And then he isn’t, again.

“Whatever, dude,” Dylan says. “Boundaries. Sounds awesome.”

“I just mean,” Tyler says. He doesn’t know where he’s going with that. He has no idea. “I just mean, whatever’s easier.”

 _Toby_ certainly seems to be off limits. Even if Tyler has no idea why. He thought, if they ever met, that Dylan would _like_ Toby. That they’d get along.

But clearly he doesn’t know anything.

“If you need more... privacy,” he tries, and Dylan actually cries for a second.

Or maybe he’s just laughing again.

“I don’t know what I fucking need,” Dylan says. “I can’t fucking breathe around you.”

Right.

Tyler going cold, too quickly. And he should’ve known.

Should’ve known, Dylan can’t stand it. And he’s just too charitable, or too pitying, or maybe he’s just looking for an excuse to die. And Tyler’s gonna be what pushes him.

“I’ll leave,” Tyler says. “Don’t worry.”

“What?” Dylan says. “Where the fuck are you gonna go?”

“I’ll figure it out!” Tyler says. “I don’t, you don’t have to—”

“Don’t be stupid,” Dylan says, and Tyler says, “I’m not gonna kill you.”

“What?” Dylan says.

“I’m not gonna be the _reason_ —”

“Don’t be insane, I wouldn’t do _that_ ,” Dylan says. “Not... not because of _you_.”

And now Tyler’s just lost. “So then...” It dawns on him too quickly. “So you’d do it, _not_ because of me.”

“No,” Dylan says. “I don’t... I don’t know. I’m not _planning_ to. And I wouldn’t... while you’re around.”

Well Tyler’s not fucking leaving, then. That’s it, it’s decided.

He’s not sure how _D_ _ylan’s_ gonna feel about it.

“I don’t mean,” Dylan says. “I don’t mean, like, ‘If you leave I’ll kill myself.’ Oh my god, no. I just mean, I wouldn’t... Like, in front of you. I’m not _psychotic_. Or... in the house, even.”

“You’ve given this a lot of thought.”

“No,” Dylan says. Says, “I shouldn’t even talk about it. I’m not, I never even really _tried_ —”

“R _eally_ tried,” Tyler says. “You never—really.”

“Everyone tries something,” Dylan says. “Like, as a kid. That they know, won’t really—”

“No,” Tyler says. “They don’t.”

“Okay, we’re not all _perfect_ ,” Dylan says, and Tyler wants to laugh. He knows Dylan doesn’t see him that way. Not anymore.

Still, old habits...

“I’m not gonna kill myself,” Dylan says. “Okay? So you can calm down.”

Like _T_ _yler’s_ the one laughing, and crying, and saying he can’t fucking breathe around other people. Other people Dylan _knows he hates_.

“Okay,” Tyler says. “I appreciate that.”

Dylan looks at him. Laughs again. “You’re so fucking weird.”

Yeah. Tyler’s aware of it.

He finds a spot eventually. Pulls in, and Dylan’s shrunk against his shirt.

Asleep again. It shouldn’t be possible. Tyler’s gonna be awake for the next twenty years.

He may never sleep at all.

But Dylan’s sleeping. So Tyler doesn’t move. Shifts in place, settles for a while.

Dylan mumbling, too warm against him.

_You’re reading this all wrong, dude._

‘ _T_ _his is a mistake_ ,’ Tyler says. You wanna tell me what you mean by that?

Of course he doesn’t. If Tyler knew, he’d know already.

 _I don’t know,_ Dylan says. _He’s just, like, overwhelmed_.

With joy to see me, Tyler says. Dylan rolls his eyes.

_I love you, dude, but it’s not all about you._

_Loved_ , Tyler says. L _oved_ , remember.

Dylan shrugs. _They’re not that different_.

Next thing Tyler knows, Dylan’s shaking at his shoulder. Wriggling out from under his arms, looking at him. “You waited again for me?”

Tyler scrubs his face awake. “I don’t... Yeah.”

“Aww,” Dylan says, and he’s back to normal.

But you can’t avoid reality forever.

And once Dylan’s in his office, Tyler stares down his computer, tries to figure out how the hell he’s supposed to approach this.

Staring at his phone, living through what probably should’ve been considered the worst call of his life, he thought about bargaining.

“Okay,” he said. “Okay. What do I have to do?”

And his manager said, “What do you mean?”

“To promote it,” he said. “Or… something. What’s my job now?”

And she, he could’ve sworn she was laughing. Or sighing, covering the phone.

“ _Ty_ ler,” she said. “Just… think of it as a vacation.”

“But I am, still,” he asked. “I mean, they’re still making it. Later.”

And she, she just—Tyler could _swear_ she was laughing.

“It’s a vacation,” she said. “Try not to think about it.”

But unlike a vacation, there’s still work involved. Keeping up, things still constantly changing. Just, not the important part.

And unlike a vacation, there’s nowhere else to go.

And this is the point where he’d get himself a drink, any other day.

This is the part where he’d get another one.

He’s almost never _drunk_. Just lightheaded, and freer.

Less terrified of everything.

And somehow Dylan’s managed to fill a whole house without ever buying any wine. Without—a cabinet, or a closet, or a can of beer in the fridge. Tyler doesn’t understand him.

He already didn’t, but now he _really_ doesn’t.

“Hey,” Dylan says. “What’re you looking for?”

“Nothing,” Tyler says. “Forget it.”


End file.
